


Make-believe

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was easier to pretend that nothing had changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make-believe

It was easier to pretend that nothing had changed. It was easier to sit at the window and pretend he was on some nameless planet waiting for the others to come in so they could plan their next raid.

It was easier than the questions. Easier than the accusations.

 _She spit in his face and curled her lips in disgust. "You killed my father, you bastard."_

 _All he could think was, 'Yes, and that boy's mother and their brother, and countless other men/women/children. And I would do it again and again and again, if I had to.'_

Sometimes he would sit outside, drink from his flask, and watch the day go by. At night, if he laid perfectly still, dew would form on his body. Lovely little droplets he would shake away in the morning before he began drinking again.

The others would visit from time to time, the ones who survived. Dayna, Soolin, Deva, even Tarrant--Tarrant who had always kept a cool distance from him during the rebellion. They kept trying to pull him back from his isolation. Vila would have understood his need to spend the day with the sour taste of adrenalin and soma in his mouth. Vila might have even joined him. But Vila was dead.

The only one who never came to visit was Avon. Avon who was too busy being rich and safe. *And why was it that he never looked happy on the viscasts? Why did he stand as if he were waiting for a blow? Did they spit on him too? Did they call him a murderer?*

It had been worse in the beginning with everyone calling him a hero, asking him to recount the glory of the rebellion. What could he tell them when all he saw when he closed his eyes were decaying corpses and blood-stained rooms? No one knew that he spent the first day after winning the war scrubbing his skin raw.

No one knew he could no longer eat meat because the smell reminded him of battlefields. No, no one knew.

And if he spent some nights vomiting until blood came up, well, no one knew that either.

Sometimes he wanted to scream that he did it for them, he had become a murderer for them. But he never did. Instead he swallowed the words with alcohol or stifled them with the heel of his hand. And when the need faded to a whisper he would draw battle plans in the air with his finger and pretend there was still a Federation to destroy.


End file.
